


The Giant Longbone

by celestialskiff



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-17
Updated: 2011-12-17
Packaged: 2017-10-27 11:22:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/295284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celestialskiff/pseuds/celestialskiff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's hard to figure out what's more difficult: being the saviour of the wizarding world, or being gay. Set post DH, not epilogue compliant. Include Harry/OMC, eventually Harry/Remus Lupin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Giant Longbone

**Author's Note:**

> No explicit warnings, but mild violence and PTSD-like symptoms mentioned.

In the end, it was one small child with a camera who lost Harry his job in Eeylops Owl Emporium.

It reminded him, when he thought about it later, of a teacher he'd once had in primary school, who, after a long, loud and busy day involving PE classes and maths tests and someone getting sick, had gone bright red and stormed out of the room when someone has asked, with affected sincerity, “Are dinosaurs imaginary?”

Ron and Hermione had started looking for jobs only a few weeks in to that long, grey summer, their second gloriously Voldemort-free summer, so Harry had as well, and, although he felt no pressing need to save money, having somewhere to go, somewhere that forced him to get out of bed, was not entirely unappealing. Eeylops Owl Emporium was looking for extra staff and Harry managed not to flinch when he was bitten by a number of baby tawny owls during the interview, which seemed to prove him satisfactory.

At first, when he saw kids peering in the windows, he thought they were just looking at the owls. Though tending the cages of thirty or forty different owl was rather different from the cage of just one, he still felt very fond of owls, and enjoyed the sounds they made, the grip of friendly talons on his wrists, the soft feathers under his hand, so he wasn't surprised that people wanted to stare. It was only when adults came in on made-up errands and he saw someone sneakily take a photograph of him that he caught on.

After that it just went on and on. Harry retreated further into the dark shop, and Mrs Shuttleworth, his boss, flinched every time a camera flashed. In the end, she didn't fire him, but she seemed glad when he told her he thought it would be better if he stopped working there. The little girl with the large camera had been one too many, and she reminded him too much of Colin Creevey. Harry watched her follow her mother down the street, decided it would be silly to tell a young eagle owl that he would miss her, and left at the end of his shift.

He thought about going home, but didn't. He turned right instead of left at the end of Diagon alley, and wandered down Knockturn alley. The shops were somewhat less threatening than he had remembered, though perhaps he was more used to a little grime and a flagrant display of eyeballs on tin trays than he had once been. The street was quiet, and on an impulse he turned into a dingy pub called The Crup and Kettle. Its interior was reminiscent of the Hog's Head, though a little brighter. Behind the bar there was a large display of what claimed to be 'licensed biting kettles' as well as a menu for various soups and sandwiches. It was mainly empty, although a group of older wizards was sitting at a table in one of the windows, and a middle-aged witch in shabby robes was rapidly eating a chicken and stuffing sandwich.

Harry went to the bar and ordered a firewhiskey.

“What kind do you want?”

Harry bit his lip, unable to come up with any brands. The man said, “I've got Ogden's.”

Harry accepted it and went to sit near the back of the pub, feeling a little exposed. He sipped at the glass, remembering he didn't like it, and found that he worried whether he would be able to finish it, but he was determined to keep at it, knowing that drinking strong alcohol was something you were supposed to do when you were upset.

In later years, he'd always remember it with a surprising amount of clarity. The row of kettles, one softly growling. The burn in his throat. The sting of an old owl bite on the softest part of his hand. And Wilf, the way he looked when he pushed the door open.

It was hard to say what Harry found so compelling about him. No individual detail was particularly attractive: his long hair, though a nice shade of brown, was unkempt and knotted, his nose seemed too small for his face, his mouth overly large. He was tall, but rather thickset, while his movements were surprisingly graceful. Perhaps it was the way he moved. Or the way he went to the bar, and got himself a Butterbeer, and then went and sat at the other side of Harry's table with complete confidence, as if they had planned to meet.

Harry had been dreading more public attention, but he found he didn't wonder if Wilf had a camera. He was too busy looking at the shape of Wilf's face, the broadness of his arms.

“On your own?” he said.

“Yeah,” Harry said.

“Wilf.”

Harry told him his first name. Wilf nodded, but did not comment further.

“Dreadful summer,” Wilf said. “How can you drink that stuff?”

“It's all right,” Harry said.

Wilf laughed. “That means you think it's horrible. Want a butterbeer?”

“No, really, it's all right.”

“Just sold a shipment of Mooncalf dung,” Wilf said. “Feeling flush.”

He was wearing jeans, and when he stood up to go back to the bar Harry found he was looking at the place where Wilf's jacket met his trousers, and below it, to the curve of his arse. He looked away quickly.

“Well, thanks,” Harry said, taking the butterbeer. He took a drink quickly to rid himself of the taste of the firewhiskey.

“You probably shouldn't accept drinks from strangers, you know,” Wilf said. “But I'm not very strange. Even if most of my work is dung based.”

“I just got fired from Eeylops,” Harry said. “I'm used to dung.”

Wilf looked concerned. “You got fired?”

“Sort of,” Harry said. “Working there was tricky.”

Wilf nodded. “Can't be easy for the saviour of the wizarding world in a retail job.”

“Yes!” Harry said eagerly. Ron and Hermione didn't seem to understand this. “It isn't. You just have to stay in one place and let people stare at you.”

“Can't imagine it,” Wilf said. “Sounds dire.” He tugged at his hair, tangling the strands together into a loose ponytail with one hand, the muscles in his forearm flexing, and then let it go. “Have to say,” he said, “Never thought I'd see you in a place like this. Must be hard being queer with all that attention on you already.”

 _Queer._ Harry stared at Wilf, and then looked around him, at the witch flicking through a paper, at the group of old wizards sitting close together. “Oh. I'm...” Harry stared at the table. “I don't know if I'm... I mean...”

“Don't worry, though,” Wilf said quickly. “This is a nice pub. You could do a lot worse.”

Harry looked back up at Wilf. He realised he was blushing furiously, his skin hot and tight. “I didn't know this was a...”

“You didn't?” Wilf said. “Oh dear. Did I waste my hard-earned cash on you?”

“I'm sorry!” Harry slid his hand into his pocket, coins clinking under his palm. He felt Wilf's hand on his arm, stopping his movement.

“I'm joking,” Wilf said. “Relax.”

Harry slunk back in the chair. He felt terribly exposed. He couldn't believe he'd walked in here without thinking about it; couldn't believe that he'd let Wilf buy him a drink. He was so full of anxiety he felt almost giddy.

“Thanks,” he said, looking at the table. And then, fighting that anxiety, he said, “You know, this isn't necessarily the wrong kind of place. For me. I just wasn't expecting it.”

“Ah,” Wilf said. Harry looked up. Wilf's expression was almost gentle, and Harry found this heartening. “It's good luck, really,” Wilf said. “Now you know the world really isn't going to end if you walk into a gay pub. The first time's definitely the worst.”

“Oh,” Harry said. “Really?”

“Definitely,” Wilf said. “It gets easier until it's finally just boring. Like I was bored until I saw you over in the corner...”

Harry sipped his butterbeer quickly, and then choked on it. Wilf laughed as he coughed, and then said, “Maybe we should change the subject. I was telling you about dung...”

They talked for long enough that Harry lost some of his nervousness, and he found that Wilf could make him laugh. Wilf mainly told him about his job, which seemed to involve harvesting useful products for potions from magical animals, as well as casting spells to protect wizards from more dangerous creatures.

“It's very official,” Wilf said. “I know I don't look it, but I'm employed by the ministry.”

Harry stared at his muggle clothes and his long hair. “You _don't_ look it.”

Wilf smiled, and put his hand gently on Harry's upper arm. “I'd best go,” he said. “Maybe I'll see you again?”

“I could come here, again?” Harry said.

“You could,” Wilf said, and told Harry he was usually there on Friday and Saturday evenings. Harry let Wilf leave, and then left himself, trying to march boldly through the door rather than slink out hiding anxiously under his work robes. He managed something in between.

*

“Any post?” Harry called when he got back. It had become his custom to ask that rather than shout a greeting.

“Something from your estate agent,” Hermione called back from the kitchen. “It's here.”

It wasn't what he was looking for, but Harry went in and retrieved it anyway from under the pile of books Hermione had spread across the table. It was a stiff letter similar to two others he had received, detailing the magical problems with Grimmauld place and exactly how much they lowered the value of the house. Harry read it twice, trying to extract any hidden meanings from the stilted language, and then gave it to Hermione.

“Standard stuff,” she said. “I wouldn't worry.”

“Good,” Harry said. He cut a slice of bread from the crusty loaf on the work surface and spread it with some greengage jam. “So,” he said. “I left Eeylops today. And then I went to The Crup and Kettle.”

“You left Eeylops?” Hermione said.

“I couldn't work there any more,” Harry said. “Too many cameras. Scared the owls.”

Hermione pushed her books aside. “I'm sorry, Harry,” she said. “I think that's going to a problem for a long time.”

“I need a different kind of job, I suppose,” Harry said.

“You'll hear from the Aurors soon,” Hermione said comfortingly. “Then you won't have to worry.”

“I don't know,” Harry said. He and Ron had sent off detailed applications to the Auror training centre at the beginning of the summer, but it was now late August, and they had heard nothing back. Hermione, who had been accepted to an apprenticeship in the magical research division of St Mungo's within a week of sending her application, was trying her best to keep them cheerful.

“I'm sure you will.” Hermione wrote a sentence at the top of her parchment, and then said brightly, “What pub was it you went to? Would we like it? I know Ron likes going to The Leaky Cauldron, but it gets a bit tedious, doesn't it?”

Harry turned around and cut another slice of bread. The giddy anxiety had left, and he suddenly felt very calm. “You know how I broke up with Ginny?” he said.

“Yes, of course,” Hermione said. “Pity, but not everything works out the way you expect.”

“Want to know why?” Harry said carefully. He was full of his conversation with Wilf, and he thought if he could tell anyone, he could tell Hermione.

“Yes, Harry?” Hermione said.

“I think I'm queer,” Harry said.

“I think people usually say 'gay' these days, Harry,” Hermione said. “Are you? I'm not that surprised, you know.”

Harry smiled. It was almost exactly the reaction he had been expecting. He put the bread down, walked around the table, and gave Hermione a rare, brief hug around her shoulders. She put her hand on his arm.

“Yes,” Harry said. “I think so.” Her hair tickled his nose.

“Well, that's all right,” Hermione said.

“Think Ron'll forgive me?” he asked, letting go. He tried to make it come out with a laugh in the words, so Hermione wouldn't know he was worried about it.

“Of course he will,” she said. “If I have anything to say about it,” she added, a little menacingly. Then she said, “Put the lid back on the jam if you're finished. Crookshanks keeps trying to eat it.”

*

For a moment, swimming was like flying. It was the moment when he kicked off from the tiles at the end of the pool and glided forward, his arms held out, ready to dip into the downward arc of the stroke, but, for a moment, suspended in front of him, cutting through the water. In the dream, he swam like he was flying, the water light on his skin, and smooth; and beneath him, in the clear water were sprawling cities, and glades of golden light, and lacy tendrils of seaweed.

Before he had flown, he had thought swimming could not really be like flying, because of the struggle through the heavy water, the pressure of it against his limbs, but once he had flown, he knew that this pressure existed in the sky as well. The faster you flew, the heavier the currents of air pressed against your skin and face; and the faster you swam, the more aware you were of the weight of the water on your skin, the force of it tickling the soles of your feet.

Harry woke up in his bedroom under with the pale green walls, remembering the blue rectangle of water his school had taken him to once or twice, such a long time ago. He was thinking about his younger self, and how gliding through the water had made him remember flying.

Ron was lying spread-eagled on the bed across from him, his eyes open. Harry hadn't heard him come in. Years of sleeping in a dormitory had made him accustomed to the movements of other people.

“Thought you were spending the night with Hermione,” Harry said, glancing upwards. Hermione's room was on the floor above them.

“Kicked me out,” Ron said. He rolled onto his back and mimicked, “'Honestly, Ron, it's like trying to share a bed with a rhinoceros'.”

“I would have said warthog,” Harry replied, laughing.

“Well, you're more like a standard lamp than a person, aren't you? It would be very knobbly, going to bed with you.”

“Quieter than a rhino, though,” Harry said. Ron opened his mouth and then shut it again. He was always kind enough not to mention the noises Harry knew he made when dreaming.

“Ron?” Harry said.

Ron was silent, his eyes closing. Harry wondered what he wanted to say to him, whether he wanted to repeat the conversation he had had with Hermione. Somehow, it didn't feel necessary. He was comfortable, and Ron was half-asleep. Telling him would just make everything uncomfortable.

Instead, he said, “What should I do, now that I'm unemployed?”

Ron blinked slowly. “Dunno,” he said. “Sell collapsible cauldrons? Learn to knit? Roll around in all your gold in your vault?”

Harry had been smiling up until the last one. “Yeah, one of them,” he said slowly.

Ron seemed about to speak again when they heard Hermione shouting from the kitchen that she'd made breakfast.

“Nice of her,” Ron said, brightening instantly. “You coming?”

“Nah, you go on,” Harry said, watching him bounce out of bed. He sat up, and put his glasses on. The colours of the room righted themselves and settled back into their usual patterns. The flat was small, and he could hear Ron and Hermione talking downstairs, but not what they were saying. He'd never lived anywhere quite like this flat before, though out of all his previous residences it was probably most like the Burrow, as it was a small section of a magical house. It was bright, messy, and cramped, and the perfect antidote to Grimmauld Place. As it turned out, it was impossible to live in Grimmauld Place happily when it wasn't your only refuge from a dangerous mass-murderer, and in the end they'd decided to get this flat together.

The flat consisted of three rooms stacked on top of each other, each getting smaller as you went up. Hermione's was at the very top, and Harry's was in the middle. Ron moved between the two, and had the slightly bruised look of someone who never gets enough sleep.

Harry listened to them talking and felt less and less like he wanted to interrupt. Instead, he the took a small red notebook from his bedside table, and flicked through the pages. When he had first written in it, he had been waiting for it to respond to his original sentence with a sarcastic remark, but when he hadn't it, he had kept writing. His first sentence ran _I have had sex three and a half times and I don't like it_ and he had kept writing because he couldn't really bring that up with anyone else.

Now he wrote _Possible jobs_. He looked at the heading for a long time, as he'd once looked at the titles of potions essays. Then he wrote _When will the Aurors tell me?_

*

Without having anywhere to go, Harry found he spent much of his time doing very little. He got his broom out once or twice and went for a few good flights. When he didn't fly he always missed the strain in his muscles and the feeling of being cut off from the world, of loosing his shadow. At the same time, it made him think about Quidditch, and that, on a weekday, he couldn't think of anyone he could play it with.

He thought about Wilf frequently, and decided he would definitely go back to The Crup and Kettle on Friday, no matter how nervous it made him feel. The rest of the week drifted past him. One day he did go to Gringotts to deposit his last wages, and looking at the money in his vault made him a combination of pleased and anxious. The fact that there so _much_ of it was both worrying and soothing.

He woke up early on Friday for no good reason. Ron wasn't in the bed across from him, which meant he and Hermione would probably both be in a good mood. Crookshanks eyed him from the top of his wardrobe. He lay in bed listening to Hermione go to her apprenticeship and Ron get ready for his shift at the new ice cream café, Abbot's. It was a much brighter, newer place than Fortescue's had been, but Harry didn't like it so much. Ron had started working there early in the summer, and has gradually been given longer hours there and more responsibilities.

“I like it,” Ron had said. “The work makes sense. It's relaxing.” Harry, seeing the crowds of children that milled around Ron and the endless counting of money and dispensing of ice cream, couldn't understand how this could be possible, but Ron always seemed cheerful enough when he was there.

Harry thought briefly about Eeylops and one of the eagle owls there. She was going to grow up big, just the sort of owl for long flights and distant deliveries. People had suggested he get himself a new owl on and off, but he still hadn't. The eagle owl would be impractical, anyway. She would need so much space, and she would attract so much attention in the middle of muggle London.

Still, he found himself thinking about her, as he wandered vaguely from kitchen to bedroom and back again. It was raining, and he kept thinking about going out and never quite making it. He still hadn't when Ron got home in the late afternoon. Harry felt a little guilty to think of him working hard all day when he was at home, wanking and thinking about Wilf and getting the grill all covered in tomato sauce when he tried to make cheese and beans on toast..

“Hermione is doing a late shift as well,” Ron said. “She keeps taking on more hours.” He sighed, and stretched. Crookshanks, who had been asleep on top of one of the cupboards, leapt lightly down and butted against Ron's leg. Ron reached down absently to stroke his blunt head. “Smells weird in here.”

Harry found talking to someone made him feel slightly dazed after his day spent in silence. “I think I did something to the grill.”

Ron pulled it out and looked at it. It was covered in splotches of burnt cheese. “And I thought you were the best of us at cooking.”

“You're not so bad,” Harry said.

“Hmm.” Ron put the grill awkwardly in the sink, and stepped around Crookshanks who was looking up at him lovingly. “I'm full of ice cream anyway.”

“Busy day?”

“Yeah. What are you going to do, now you've left Eeylops?”

“I'm not sure. Might just wait to hear from the Aurors.”

“Suppose you don't have to worry about saving up,” Ron said.

“No,” Harry said. Harry wasn't really sure how to respond to comments of this kind. They made him feel both a bit guilty and rather annoyed. “Do you want me and my vast wealth to buy us some take away for dinner?”

Ron eyed him, and then snorted. “Yeah, okay.”

The evening dragged. Harry let Ron thrash him at chess twice, and spent the rest of the time wishing Hermione would get home. He'd made up his mind to go and see Wilf, but he knew he couldn't leave now without Ron asking about it, or, worse, trying to come with him.

It was so late when he left the house that he thought there wasn't much point, but he apparrated to Knockturn alley anyway. The Crup and Kettle was much more full than it had been on the previous occasion, but it wasn't heaving the way the Leaky Cauldron did at times. He looked around, feeling rather lost. Everyone here seemed older than he was, and much more assured.

“Thought you weren't coming.”

Wilf was standing beside him. He smiled, and gripped Harry's upper arm briefly. He was wearing muggle clothes today again: these were no cleaner than the ones he had worn previously, but they were somewhat tighter.

“Sorry,” Harry said. “My flatmate delayed me.”

“You say you're sorry too much,” Wilf said. “Want a drink?”

They took their butterbeers over to one of the quieter corners of the pub. Harry felt a little hemmed in by the noise and crush of people, but he concentrated on Wilf.

“You weren't scared off then?” Wilf said.

“Nah,” Harry said. “I mean, I … wanted to come. And see you.”

“Brave, aren't you, Harry? Though I suppose that's a given.”

Harry looked down. “To come to a pub? I'm not sure.”

“I hear it's just one of your many achievements,” Wilf said.

“Don't know what you've been reading. I'm pretty sure this is the most exciting thing I've ever done,” Harry said.

“Oh really?” Wilf said. He put his hand on Harry's back, between the shoulder blades, and then slid it down, slowly, to the small of his back. “Then I'll just have to show you something really exciting.”

Later they walked down Knockturn Alley, and Wilf's arm was warm on his shoulders, the sky clear above the steeply sloping street, and Harry suddenly felt full of bright excitement and cheerfulness in a way he hadn't in a long time. He smiled, tugging Wilf closer to himself, feeling like perhaps he really was brave, and just as attractive as Wilf had whispered.

“There!” Wilf said, stopping at the bottom of the street. It turned immediately to their right, and more grubby houses ran along its length, but straight in front of them was a parapet ornately carved with griffins and sphinxes, and below a river ran. It was too dark to see water, but Harry could hear it, faint and musical.

Wilf steered him to the parapet, and they looked over. In the water, faintly reflected, was the moon. “There,” Wilf said again. “Most romantic spot in wizarding London. And it's all ours. Belongs to the queers.”

“Oh yes?” Harry said.

“Indeed,” Wilf said, and suddenly his arm was moving on Harry's back, drawing him closer, cupping his head in his hand, and then they were kissing: Wilf's mouth warm and tasting of smoke and Harry did not feel at all sure what to do with either his own tongue or with Wilf's, which was pressed between Harry's lips.

They kissed for long enough that Harry sorted out the rhythm of it, and his face felt wet, and slightly sore from stubble on Wilf's chin, and long enough that his cock had taken a definite interest, and was pressing achingly against his trousers. Below, he could still hear the water, faint but distinct.

They kissed until the only possible option was to put their hands down each other's trousers or to stop, and so they stopped. Wilf leant against the parapet, panting and smiling, and Harry smiled back.

Wilf got his wand out. “It's been lovely, Harry,” he said, “But good little wizards need to be able to get up in the morning. Next week, you think?”

Harry wanted it to be sooner. He wanted to keep kissing him, now that he'd started, to feel Wilf's rough hands on his skin. “Yeah, OK, next week sounds good.”

*

He met Ginny, two days afterwards, quite by chance, in Diagon Alley. She was looking thoughtfully at Eeylops Owl Emporium.

“Don't worry; I don't work there any more,” Harry said, coming up behind her.

She tossed her head, silky red hair trailing over her spine. Harry had always been amazed by the smallness of her body, the strength hidden by its neatness. “Well, I wasn't _worried_ ,” she said.

“Weren't you?” Harry said. “You looked like you were considering crossing the road."

“Perhaps I was a little,” Ginny said. “But you could argue that it's because I don't need anything from Eeylops. I'm looking for some new robes.”

“Oh yes? What for?” Harry said.

“Well, you know I'm going to play Quidditch professionally, one day,” Ginny said with a grin. Harry knew how passionately she wished for this goal, but she always grinned when she said, trying to hide her real feelings. “But dad thinks it would be sensible to get a ministry job first. You know. Until the scouts come calling.”

“They will. Soon,” Harry replied.

Ginny smiled. “They'd better,” she said. “What about you?”

“Still waiting for the Aurors,” Harry said.

“Don't worry about that!” Ginny said. “They can't possibly not accept you.”

“I hope so,” Harry said. He thought about them both, longing for goals that felt impossible to obtain. Their conversation felt terribly stilted. He was remembering how he had once touched Ginny, how he had once kissed her in places that made her laugh: the soft skin at the back of her knees, the top of her shoulder blade; and how she had been crying the last time he had seen her.

“Do you want to get a drink?” he asked her now.

She looked at him thoughtfully, and then said, “No; not yet. I'll come to the flat soon. See the three of you. Tease Ron a bit. Okay?”

“Okay,” Harry said. She smiled at him and shifted her hands like she wasn't quite sure what to do with them, and then she nodded, and walked away. Harry watched her go: the sunlight in her hair, the suppleness of her movements.

It was funny, he thought, how you could miss someone and be glad to see them leave at the same time.

*

Ron had tried his own dress robes first, rejected them, tried Harry's, found them too short, and returned to his own. Harry's were lying in a crumpled pile on the floor at his feet and Ron was trying to straighten out his own. They were slightly too tight across the chest, but otherwise acceptable. He was moving around the room with a nervous energy, picking up pieces of paper and books and chocolate wrappers and putting them down again.

He was not quite looking at Harry, and Harry was not quite looking at him. Harry felt nervous too because he could feel the argument brewing between them, but he didn't say anything.

“Hermione told me to sort out my hair,” Ron said at last. Harry shifted slightly on the bed to get a better look at Ron's head.

“It looks fine,” Harry said.

“It looks the same as always,” Ron said, fiddling dejectedly with his fringe.

“Yeah, and it always looks fine.”

“You think so?”

“Really.”

“How can I trust _you_?” Ron said. “Look at your hair.”

He charmed the hairbrush to make it damp and applied it to his head. His hair grew slightly darker in colour as it always did when wet, but otherwise remained the same.

“I don't know why you're so worried,” Harry said. “You don't really want to work for Gringotts do you?”

“I dunno,” Ron said. “Bill think it's okay.”

Harry watched him tugging anxiously at his hair. He decided it was better to say it than not to say it. “It's not you, though, is it?”

“Why not?” Ron said. “It's something.”

“I thought you were just doing this interview to keep your mum happy.”

“It would be nice to have some real cash coming in, though,” Ron said. He sighed and turned away from the mirror, giving up. Harry recognised the expression: it was the same one Ron had worn in the past when he had thrust aside essays he couldn't complete. Harry watched him tug at the front of his dress robes again, his fingers twitching anxiously. He decided to ask the real question.

“What about Auror training, though?”

Ron's expression changed. He'd known Ron hadn't wanted him to bring it. “What about it?” Ron snapped.

“Weren't we going to do it together?”

“Have you seen how much a term costs?” Ron's hands balled into fists, and his cheeks were turning red. Harry knew the signs, knew that Ron was anxious and not quite willing to stop himself from lashing out.

Still, he spoke. “I could...”

Ron shifted, turning to face Harry properly, his feet in their new black shoes crushing Harry's dress robes. His hand jerked to the wand in his pocket, then jerked away. “Don't you _dare_ offer to pay for me!” he said. “Don't you dare.”

“You could pay me back,” Harry said softly. “Later.”

“Right. Yes. Exactly. Because having your little friend around makes you feel good, doesn't it? Makes you feel better about yourself? I don't see you nagging Hermione to go with you. Afraid she might show you up, are you?”

“Don't be stupid,” Harry said. Harry could feel himself trembling slightly, but his voice remained even, partially because he knew it annoyed Ron more if he didn't shout back. “I just thought you wanted to come, that's all.”

Ron's hands were shaking. “I want to do well in this interview! Hermione thinks it's a good idea. Stop talking about it with me now... Stop sabotaging me!”

“I'm not _sabotaging_ you,” Harry said. He stood up carefully, and walked around Ron, whose anger seemed to make him twice as broad as usual. Ron turned away from him, abruptly opening a drawer and slamming it. As Harry reached the stairs to the kitchen, he heard the faint pop of Ron disapparating. Harry stopped, and turned around. He peered into the room to check that Ron, in his heightened state, hadn't splinched himself, and then kept walking downstairs.

A handsome barn owl was tapping on the window. Harry was glad to be distracted and let it in. It swooped once around the room before landing beside Harry and offering its leg.

“Hope you haven't been waiting long, pal,” Harry said, gently undoing the letters. When he saw the writing, his hand jerked and he almost dropped them. Two letters, on crisp white paper, addressed in dark brown ink. From the Centre for the Training and Guidance of Orders.

He didn't notice the owl flying off. He didn't feel the breeze coming in through the open window. His fingers shaking feverishly, he read his letter.

 _Dear Mr Potter_

 _We were pleased to receive your application on the 12th of June this year. The Centre for the Training and Guidance of Aurors offers an intense and detailed training programme designed to give the students the best possible grounding in the defence against dark magic. Every year we receive a great number of applications, and among them yours was outstanding._

 _Rarely have we seen a wizard so clearly devoted to this cause and so well regarded by those among us. Because of this, it is with great regret that we must inform you that we cannot offer you a place. While you are clearly a very capable wizard, we are afraid that your fame and your prior work in this field would count against you if you were to continue in this career._

 _You are simply too well known by all wizards to work effectively as an auror and we feel your level of experience be too great to benefit from our training. After much discussion, we have come to the conclusion that it would simply not be fair to you to allow you to begin the training when we are certain that you would be too vulnerable because of your fame and your previous history to work as an auror._

 _We are sorry that we cannot offer you a place at the centre, and we wish you the best of luck for the future..._

Harry didn't read any more. He was trembling badly; a distant part of him was almost surprised by how much he was trembling. He tore the page in half, though his hands shook so badly that only a chunk at one side came off, and it didn't really obscure the words. He found he wanted to punch something, but instead he grabbed Ron's letter and ripped it open instead.

The envelope, he realised, was thicker than his own, though the letter itself was shorter.

 _Dear Mr Weasley,_

 _We were pleased to receive your application on the 12th of June this year. The Centre for the Training and Guidance of Aurors offers an intense and detailed training programme designed to give the applicants the best possible grounding in the defence against dark magic. We were very impressed with your application, and we would like to offer you an interview and a tour of the grounds at the Centre for the Training and Guidance of Aurors. Please find enclosed details of a portkey that will take you to your interview..._

Harry dropped Ron's letter on the floor on top of his own.

It wasn't fair, it wasn't right, it didn't make any sense at all. Harry stormed out of the flat, slamming the door behind him.

*

He walked for a long time around muggle London. The streets became a blur of movement and sound, and Harry lost his bearings completely. He was aware only of the feeling of the pavement under his feet, and the anger boiling inside him.

Ron didn't even _want_ it. Maybe he shouldn't have _bothered_ saving the Wizarding world if this was the thanks he got.

He wasn't sure how long he walked, or much at all outside his own seething anger and the blur of colours around him, but eventually his feet got sore, his toes tight in his trainers. It was hard to stop walking: he felt like he might start shouting if he stopped walking, so he slowed down slightly and swung around, looking in all directions. A street to his left, which he hadn't come down, looked familiar, and he turned onto it. It took quite a bit of walking and consulting street names before he finally figured out where he was, but the concentration soothed him slightly.

He wasn't quite sure when he decided to go to The Crup and Kettle, but gradually as he walked it became his destination, and he was glad when he finally swung the familiar door open. It was a little after lunch time, and the place was about half-full, tables littered with plates and cups, and the air full of conversation. He thought he could see one or two heads turn as he made his way to the bar, but there was nothing he couldn't ignore.

After he'd consumed some sandwiches and a large glass of cold pumpkin juice he felt quite a bit better. He pushed aside his plate and flicked through an old copy of the Daily Prophet that someone had left at his table.

A warm hand gripped his shoulder, and he started slightly, before looking up and seeing Wilf.

“Wasn't expecting to see you,” Wilf said.

“I wasn't expecting to come here,” Harry said.

Wilf swung himself into the booth next to Harry. Harry could feel his warmth against his side, the weight of his leg pressing against Harry's own. He didn't pull away.

“You look grim,” Wilf said.

“I'm all right,” Harry said. “I'm pissed off.”

“Oh yeah?”

Harry told him about the Auror letter. He found he added in a number of details about Ron, too, which were not entirely complementary or necessary.

Wilf leaned back in the booth, looking at him. “Fuck,” he said. “That's ridiculous. You killed the darkest wizard of all time, and they're not going to let you be an Auror?”

His disgust on Harry's behalf was very gratifying. They spent a cheerful half hour picking apart the letter from the Aurors, the career itself, and the wizarding world in general. At some point Wilf rested his hand on Harry's thigh and didn't take it away. Harry felt warm and considerably less upset.

Wilf leant closer to him, his nose grazing Harry's cheek. “What you need, Mr Potter, is a sensible career. A career like mine where you don't have to encounter the wizarding world.”

“That sounds about right,” Harry said.

“Because the wizarding world, aside from a few choice specimens,” here, Wilf squeezed his thigh, “Is entirely dull, hypocritical and useless. What you need is to spend some time away from it all...”

“Yeah, I do,” Harry said.

“...In Romania,” Wilf continued.

“In Romania?” Harry said.

“Listen, aside from the fact that your not inconsiderable charms mean I'm always glad to see you, I was particularly glad to see you today,” Wilf said.

“Why's that?”

“I've got a job in Romania tonight,” Wilf said. “I'm supposed to be there by about ten. But the thing is, one my mates backed out on me. Has something very important to do, he says. He's supposed to go ahead of me, scope the lay of the land. Liaise with one of our ministry officials.”

“Yeah?”

“And the things is, I'd catch the six o'clock portkey instead of the ten o'clock one, but I still have to sort some things out on this end. Looking for giants is a difficult business, you know. It's only for experts.”

“And you're a giant expert?” Harry said, smiling slightly. He could smell Wilf faintly, an attractive odour, like newly turned earth and honey, and watch his lips move, shaping the words.

“No, of course not. I've got to go and get one, don't I?”

“A giant expert?”

“Yeah, and we're scheduled to catch the ten o'clock portkey to Romania. I don't think I can drag him along earlier. He's a difficult bloke. I think the ministry is paying him double what they should, and they're not happy. I don't dare add expenses to that.”

“That sounds like a problem all right,” Harry said.

“Yeah. You can see where this is going, right, Harry? How would you feel about a little trip to Romania tonight?”

“I dunno. I hadn't really considered it,” Harry said. He hadn't, but somehow, despite the danger of giants and the stupidity of wandering around an unknown country looking for one, it didn't sound like a particularly unappealing idea.

“You wouldn't have to do anything dangerous,” Wilf said. “Really, I just need someone to catch this portkey, and be there to meet any officials who show up. And check the area. Initial check-up, we call it. Check there aren't any unexpected dangerous creatures.”

“Aside from the giants?”

“You won't be going anywhere near the giants, pal. You'll just be checking the area for us and my tricky giant expert.”

“On my own?”

“Yeah, but there's nothing much to see, I promise. You'll just look at some boring old fields in Romania for us, then we'll get there to find the giant. Think you're up to it?”

Of course he was up to it! Harry's mind was immediately insistent on this point. It sounded easy enough, and besides, Wilf was asking him; Wilf with the gorgeous hands and the nice voice. “Yeah,” Harry said. “Sound okay.”

“Excellent,” Wilf said. “Brilliant, Harry! You know, if you like it, and this goes well, you could even start picking up work in this line occasionally. We really could work together!”

Harry smiled. Wilf was leaning very close to him, and part of him kept wondering if he was going to kiss him again soon. “Sounds good,” he said.

“I should tell you about this giant,” Wilf said. “The wizarding community isn't very big in Romania, you see, so they asked for our help. He's called Longbone.”

“Longbone?” Harry repeated.

“Yeah, only don't say it too loudly. Secret information, isn't it? Most giants are all right if you leave them alone, but this Longbone is menace. Thinks he's a king. Keep stealing from people, showing himself to muggles.”

“What are you going to do to him?”

“Nothing terrible! Don't look like that. We're just going to move him somewhere much more isolated. Too far away from him to bother with the muggles again. He keeps stealing gold, too, but we don't mind if he keeps that so much as long as he stays out of everyone's way.”

“Okay,” Harry said. “That makes sense.” He pressed closer to Wilf in the booth, looking at the shape of his profile, the slant of his mouth. Wilf smiled.

“You're going to do it then?” Wilf said, sliding his hand slightly further between Harry's thighs. Harry willed himself not to get hard.

“Yeah,” Harry said. “Doesn't sound like much of a challenge, really.”

“Good,” Wilf said. He tilted his head slightly, so his lips were closer to Harry's cheek. Harry felt like he would say yes to pretty much anything if only Wilf would move his hand. Wilf didn't. Instead, he pulled back slightly, and said, “You know, when this is over, I'll have lots more free time. You should come to my flat, hmm? We can get more fully acquainted.”

Harry nodded, straightening his trousers and trying to loose the flush in his cheeks.

*

As it turned out Romania looked an awful lot like the Yorkshire dales. Harry dropped the old tuna can he had been gripping, and looked around. It was still light, though the sky was grey and the air was chilly. Wilf had said he just needed to walk to third rise he would see on his left and keep his eyes peeled for anything unusual.

It took Harry a few minutes to locate what Wilf must mean. It was rather further away than Harry had expected, though the hills around him, covered in long grass, bracken and heather, were softer and less steep than he had somehow expected Romania to be. He thought it would take him over an hour to get to the rise, but the air was warm and the ground was springy under his feet, and he set to the task willingly.

He walked easily for over an hour, and his only complaint was that he wished he'd eaten something less salty than bacon for dinner, and that he'd brought something to drink. Light was fading gradually, though it seemed set to remain the pale grey of a summer dusk for a while longer. He had heard some unusual birdsong, and had seen a golden flutter that might have been a snidget, which would have been unusual for England, though was perhaps more usual in Romania.

He was whistling tunelessly to himself and thinking diverting thoughts about Wilf and how they might spend their next evening together when he heard the growl. He took a step towards the sound and it instantly rose in pitch becoming a deep, demanding roar.

Harry stopped moving, and looked into the half light. He could see the glint of an eye, about level with, if not at a greater height than, his own. Anything that was taller than he was and could growl was definitely bad. He gripped his wand firmly in one hand, and whispered, “Lumos!”

The creature blinked in the light and took at step forward. For a second Harry thought it was a hippogriff and was glad, but he swiftly realised it was the wrong size and shape. Its head and legs were those of an great eagle, and the growl came disquietingly from its huge beak, but the feathers melted in to the thick tawny fur and the powerful hindquarters of a lion. It was a griffin.

Harry thought back desperately to anything anyone had ever taught him about griffins. He met its eyes carefully, but the griffin seemed to take this as a threat and bounded further forward, stretching out its long talons. Harry certainly didn't want to expose his neck to it by bowing.

He took one step away, and the griffin immediately moved with him, its long tail lashing like a cat's when it was stalking its prey.

Harry swallowed. “Don't supposed you'd just like to let me keep walking?” he said.

The griffin took another step towards him. Harry thought he could see muscles rippling under the feathers. It was a huge and impressive creature, and it wasn't responding to him at all like a hippogriff. Harry took another step back, and then turned, deciding to run for it.

It was a mistake. He felt his shirt and then his skin rip painfully as a long talon lashed down his spine. He twisted, gasping, and pointed his wand at the griffin, who looked set on trampling him.

“Stupefy!” he shouted. The griffin shuddered, and stopped walking. Harry took the opportunity to run. Looking back over his shoulder as he did so, he saw that the griffin was not properly stunned, but had merely slowed down, and was staggering slightly.

The scratches on Harry back throbbed as he ran, but he ignored them, scrambling up hill as fast as he could. He wanted to put as much distance as possible between himself and the griffin.

It was properly dark by the time he turned around, and when he swung his wand light down the mountainside, he couldn't see any sign of the griffin. He hoped it had given up.

He stood still for a few minutes, getting his breath back. He explored his back with on hand, but though the cuts were smarting rather painfully, they didn't seem to be bleeding much. His breath was harsh in his throat, and he wished he had something to drink.

His watch told him it was past ten. He wondered if he'd missed Wilf, and hoped that he would turn up soon. Within twenty minutes, he reached the top of the rise, panting. In the starlight he could only make out the edges of the stones, and the long grass shushed softly in the wind. It sounded a little like the sea on the beach near Shell Cottage. His legs trembled slightly and he felt rather shaky. He stood still, trying to get his bearings. He was in the right place. Wilf and his colleagues should be here already.

When he heard the faint pop of someone apparating he was delighted, and turned, smiling. He didn't have a chance to see a face before strong hands grabbed his shoulders, twisting his arms to his sides. He tried to grab for his wand but the arms twisted his hands back cruelly. He felt his cuts reopening under the strain and shouted in pain and kicked out at his assailant, pleased to feel flesh meeting his heel. The man gasped but made no other sound.

“Thought it would be fun to come out here poaching, eh, boy?” The man said, squeezing him more tightly.

Harry bucked his head backwards, kicking frantically. He couldn't understand who this man could be, or what was going on. The man shifted, loosening his grip on Harry slightly, but not enough to allow Harry to fend him off. Harry got in another good kick before he felt a wand press against his throat.

“Want me to hex you? Stay still then.”

Harry froze, trembling. “Look, I'm not poaching. Ask Wilf! He should be here any minute.”

“Never heard of him,” the man said, giving Harry another hard squeeze. “All I know is you're trespassing in a snidget sanctuary after midnight without permission. You're looking at a hefty fine there, mate. Maybe even a prison sentence if you've damaged anything.”

“Let me go. I haven't touched a stupid snidget!” Harry said. “I'm meeting Wilf. It's important!”

“And like I said, I don't know who Wilf is.”

Harry heard the sound of someone else apparating. His heart leapt.

“There you are,” the man said cheerfully. “Give me some light, eh? I've caught a poacher.”

The wand light fell over Harry's face, and in it, he looked up and saw familiar eyes meeting his own. Remus Lupin looked at him, and then started to laugh.

“That's not a poacher, Jack. That's Harry Potter,” he said.

The man let him go so suddenly that Harry lost his balance and fell headlong onto the ground. He breathed in the scent of the long grass and the dew, and felt Remus's hands on his shoulders. He stood up slowly, shaking him off.

“All right?” Remus asked.

“Got scratched by the griffin,” Harry said. “But, yeah, okay.”

“Poor Isaac. You must have really scared him,” the other man, Jack, said. Harry wondered if everyone gave viscous animals stupid names.

“What are you doing in Romania?” Harry asked. Now that no one was holding a wand to his throat he had more time to feel confused.

“We're in a snidget sanctuary in north Yorkshire, Harry,” Remus said gently. “Are you all right?”

“I was supposed to meet a friend,” Harry said. He was unwilling to say it, because it suddenly sounded stupid, but he said it anyway, “We were looking for a giant called Longbone.”

Remus put his hand gently on his shoulder. Harry didn't much feel like anyone touching him after being so recently manhandled, but he allowed it to remain there. “Jack,” Remus was saying, “Would you be all right without me? I think I should bring Harry back and get him some tea.”

“Of course,” Jack said. In the faint wand light, Harry thought he was looking at him rather pityingly. He allowed Remus to grip his arm and they apparated away together.

*

Remus brought him to a brightly lit office. From the scenery outside, Harry didn't think they'd travelled terribly far. A fire blazed merrily, and the room was lit brightly by an abundance of candles. A number of grindylows floated slowly in a tank of murky water, and a creature the looked like an oversized ferret looked up from where it was stretched by the fire.

“Bloody mangy curs!” it shouted.

Remus took a piece of uncooked bacon from a bag by the kettle and held it out. The creature squeaked and grabbed it. “Baldy scoundrel!” it said.

“You're welcome,” Remus said.

Harry stared at it. “Did a charm go wrong?”

“What?” Remus said. “No; that's a jarvey. Didn't you study them with me? Generally pleasant animals. Inclined to be rude.”

“I don't remember,” Harry said, watching it tear the fat off the bacon and chew it noisily.

“Did Isaac hurt you badly?” Remus asked. “Should I have a look?”

“I think it's okay,” Harry said, but Remus was already looking at the gashes in his shirt. Harry pulled it up to give him a better view.

Remus hissed through his teeth. “Looks sore,” he said. He went to one of the cupboards, and took out a bottle of green ointment. “I'll rub some on, all right?”

Harry nodded, and though his back prickled under Remus's hands, he found that the ointment tingled pleasantly and reduced the pain in his back considerably. It smelt like mint and coriander.

Harry was glad to get the tea, and drank a cup so quickly his throat burned. Remus got him another. In the warm dark the idea of Romania seemed distant and ridiculous, and Wilf's whole story seemed full of holes. It was an unpleasant realisation, and Harry felt embarrassed.

They settled down in front of the fire, Harry leaning forward slightly in his armchair so he wouldn't upset his back. The jarvey chewed the last of its bacon noisily. “Bugger it all!” it said and shut its eyes.

Remus sipped his tea. “Harry,” he said. “I should probably tell you about the giant Longbone.”

“I take it you're not looking for him,” Harry said. “Does he exist?”

“No.” Remus sighed. “The giant Longbone lived in hills of Scone. According to legend. He stole vast amounts of gold from muggles and hid it from everyone. Although wizards tried to take it from him, they could never reach it before Longbone killed them.”

Harry nodded. He didn't want to admit how thoroughly he had believed that Longbone was real.

“Harry,” Remus said gently, “Telling someone to look for the giant Longbone is a trick pure-bloods often play on muggle-borns. It's a fool's errand. They send them somewhere obscure on the premise of searching for the giant Longbone, or something to do with him. It's just a trick. People used to play it on muggle-borns when I was in school. I thought it had gone rather out of vogue.”

Harry had felt his stomach dropping throughout this explanation. He felt rather sick and very stupid. He was remembering Wilf's hand on his arm, and the kindness of his face. He stared at the jarvey, who was asleep and mumbling slightly, so he wouldn't have to look at Remus.

“Is that what happened to you?” Remus asked him.

“Yeah,” Harry said. “Something like that.”

“Who told you?”

“A chap I met in a pub,” Harry said evasively. He suddenly wanted to go home and bury himself under the red counterpane on his bed. He wondered if Ron and Hermione were worried about him, or cross with him for spoiling the interview and ripping up the letters.

“Which pub? What's his name?”

“The Crup and Kettle,” Harry said firmly.

“Ah,” Remus said, putting the cup of tea down. “Look, Harry, don't be embarrassed. It's much easier for someone to trick you if you're attracted to them.”

Harry kept his eyes on the jarvey. Its fur was brown, but it darkened to black along its tail. At last he said, “Well. I suppose I was.”

“I've been a patron of The Crup and Kettle myself in the past,” Remus said. “I'm sure you were at your most vulnerable when you were there. It was easy for someone unscrupulous to trick you.”

“Why though?” Harry said. “What could he possibly get out of tricking me?”

“I don't know,” Remus said. “Perhaps your fame attracted him.”

“Fuck,” Harry said. “Sorry. I'm just so sick of it. I'm too famous to even get a job.”

He was angry again, the anger surging through him, biting at him.

“What do you mean?” Remus asked. “What's been going on, Harry?”

Harry looked at him; his face was tired, but he was less lined with exhaustion and hunger than he had been the last time Harry had seen him. The room was warm, the fire crackling merrily. The jarvey rolled onto its side and mumbled something about flatulence. Harry hunched over in his seat, looking at Remus.

“You went to The Crup and Kettle too?” Harry said.

“Yes,” Remus said. “Haven't been in years. Do they still have that old green kettle that growls?”

“Mmm,” Harry said. “It's noisy. I don't know why they think those attract customers.”

“They're a decoy,” Remus said. “People used to pretend they were just going in to look at the kettles, rather than looking to meet someone.”

“Oh,” Harry said. He tugged at his hair. “This summer's been a nightmare, Remus,” he said. “What's yours been like?”

“Not too bad,” Remus said. “I like helping Jack occasionally. He's a pleasant man. I'm sorry I haven't visited. What's been happening?”

Harry sat still for a moment, the words inside his head building up like an entity separate from him. He put his cup of tea down, and explored the inside of his mouth with his tongue. He didn't want to speak, and he wanted to speak desperately. Haltingly, then, he began to talk, and then to talk more eagerly, telling Remus details that he hadn't even known had been on his mind. It started in the wrong places, mixing Wilf and his failed job at Eeylops, the incomprehensible letters from his estate agent with the distance he was feeling from Ron and Hermione. He began with the letter from the Aurors and ended with the sleepless nights in Grimmauld place when his mouth had been parched from ragged breathing. He told Remus about his bedroom, and the warm steps down to the kitchen, and the colour of Wilf's eyes, and Ginny's face when he told her he didn't want to go out with her any more; about seeing so much sadness on the face of someone he cared about and knowing that he had caused it.

He sat there for a long time in front of the fire, and talked himself out. Remus was watching him carefully, leaning forward in his chair, as close as he could be without getting up. He wasn't saying anything, but he was nodding. He looked like he understood. Harry then felt a desperation for them not to be separate in this room any more, to touch Remus, to be touched by him, a feeling he had never experienced with such acuteness before.

Surging forward, almost off his chair, he reached over the jarvey, and grabbed Remus's wrist. Remus looked at him, startled but not cross, and gently twisted his wrist in Harry's grip, so his palm pressed against Harry's own. Then he squeezed.

*

Morning was coming by the time Harry got home. The sky was turning faintly pink at the edges. Remus left him at the top of his street, giving his forearm a quick squeeze, and nodding when Harry suggested they meet again soon. Harry thought something important had passed between them, and that steeled his nerves.

Still, it was a longer walk up to his flat than usual, and when he opened the door, it was with trepidation, waiting for someone to shout at him. Inside, though, all was still. The table was littered with papers, the remains of a take-away, and bottles and glasses of butterbeer and wine. It was in deep disarray, the morning light catching the stains on the plates and drips of alcohol and curry on the floor. Harry looked at it in surprise. Suddenly a low rasping sound filled the kitchen, and Harry peered around anxiously, unable to place the sound, until he spotted Crookshanks licking out a container.

Harry walked to the stairs at the other side of the kitchen, looking behind him as he did so. There had clearly been more people than Ron and Hermione here last night, but the house was now quiet and still. Clearly, they hadn't been worried at all. Clearly, they didn't need him around.

He was too tired to dwell on it. He walked upstairs as quietly as his could, and, once he reached his bedroom, collapsed face-forward on his mattress in deference to his stinging back.

*

When he woke he had a bad taste in his mouth and he didn't feel like he'd slept for long enough. His feet were still in their boots, and were numb and sore. He wriggled out of them, and then shed his clothes. The flat was mercifully quiet. It seemed late, and he thought Ron and Hermione must both be out at work.

After a shower, he felt considerably better, and distinctly hungry. He went down the next flight of stairs to the kitchen, and found Ron stacking glasses in the sink. He looked pale, and a bit tired, but otherwise cheerful.

“Ron,” said Harry, from the stairs, unable to quite look at him.

“There you are, mate,” Ron said. “We had quite a night last night.”

“Looks like it,” Harry said.

Ron put the glass down. The curry containers had been thrown away, but otherwise the room was in almost the same state of chaos as it had been the previous night. The largest glasses had been arranged in a neat row by the sink, but nothing had been washed yet.

“Listen,” Ron said, “We saw your letter. We couldn't help it. I'm sorry.”

“I opened yours,” Harry said. He didn't apologise, but Ron nodded.

“Yeah, I know.” Ron looked awkwardly at the glasses. “I'm not going to take it. At least, not right now.”

“What was the party for last night, then?” Harry asked.

Ron looked even more awkward. “I got the job in Gringotts,” Ron said. “Bill and Fleur came round to celebrate. We had quite a lot to drink. Poor Hermione had to work today, too. But she knows what she's doing.”

Harry wanted to ask whether he really wanted to work for Gringotts, but he decided it would be better not. He felt too tired and too sore to have another fight. Reading the Auror letter, though it still stung, seemed very distant after last night.

“Where were you, then?” Ron said, going to the table. It was a dull day outside, but the room was warm, and Crookshanks was curled in Hermione's favourite chair, his paw over his nose. Ron was banging the glasses around, but it didn't seem to wake him.

“I was looking for the giant Longbone,” Harry said.

Ron laughed. “The one who stole all the gold you've ever known?”

“What?” Harry asked.

“You know, the old song,” Ron said. And he sang, tunelessly, “ _The only gold I've ever known was stolen by the giant Longbone_. Mum used to sing it. He lived in the Hills of Scone which always made me laugh.”

“I know. I went to Yorkshire.”

“Wait, you weren't really looking for the giant Longbone, were you? Are you feeling okay?”

Harry nodded. The whole thing seemed much funnier than it had yesterday. “Aside from these griffin scratches,” he said, “Not too bad.”

“Harry, either you've finally cracked or you've got a long story to tell,” Ron said. “Either way I'm having some toast first.”

They sat at the messy table, finishing up the last of the greengage jam, and Harry told Ron about the previous evening. He didn't tell the story particularly well, beginning with Remus and the griffin and mentioning the jarvey and trying to leave out Wilf as much as possible, but Ron was an excellent audience, throwing in surprised comments and laughing at various parts so much that it made Harry laugh too, and he felt almost his usual self once he'd finished.

“Those aurors are going to be lost without you,” Ron said, laughing. “The only bit I don't understand is why you trusted this Wilf bloke.”

Harry's body decided that Harry hadn't had his fair share of adrenaline in the last twenty-four hours, and began to pump some more into around his system. He decided, looking at Ron, who was stroking Crookshanks and unaware of the blob of greengage jam on his cheek, that he wasn't going to lie. “Well,” he said. “I met him at the Crup and Kettle.”

“You said. What, did he get you drunk?” Ron thought about it. “Isn't that a gay place?”

“Yeah,” Harry said. “It is. I sort of fancied him.” He paused, then said, “Thought he liked me too.”

“Wilf?”

“Yeah,” Harry said.

Ron's cheeks went pink. “Oh,” he said. Harry's heart pounded in his ears.

“And he tricked you?” Ron said. “Fuck. What a prick.”

Harry grinned, suddenly feeling light. “Yeah. I suppose he was.”

“Why are you smiling? I'd be furious! I _am_ furious and it didn't happen to me.”

“I suppose I am a little bit angry,” Harry said, thinking about it. It certainly hadn't been his first consideration. And looking at Ron, incensed on his behalf, he felt extremely cheerful. Ron caught him looking, and smiled back slightly.

“Suppose it explains why it didn't work out with you and Ginny,” Ron said. “She may be scary, but she doesn't have a penis.”

“Ron!” Harry said, startled. Then he laughed. “You might say it's her only shortcoming.”

“Bill's in a pretty good mood, you know,” Ron said. “We could all go and track down this Wilf person together.”

“What, and hex him? Nah, I'm all right,” Harry said.

“Just you and me, then?” Ron said.

“No! Really, Ron. I'm fine,” Harry said. Harry pictured the pair of them marching up to the Crup and Kettle and forcing Wilf outside. It was so ridiculous it made him want to laugh again, although thinking about Wilf was rather difficult.

“All right.” Ron stood up and clinked the glasses together dangerously. “If you're sure. But let me know.”

Harry watched him moving around the kitchen, sorting out plates, and sighing, and charming the end of the jam out of the jam jar.

“Ron?” Harry said.

“Hmm?”

“I'm sorry about yesterday. I'm really glad your interview went well.”

“Yeah. It'll be all right, working in a bank. Bill made it sound quite exciting,” Ron said.

“I'm not sure what I'm going to do,” Harry said. “Maybe I really should go and talk to giants.”

“Hagrid would love that,” Ron said. “Start smaller though. The griffin beat you up. Maybe start with flobberworms.”

*

It was the shortest interview he'd ever been to, even shorter than the one for Eeylops. The fire was lit, even though it was a warm day, and Remus stood by it, absently stroking the jarvey's nose. It looked like it was trying to decide where to bite him. Jack stood by the open door, and fired questions at Harry, mainly about snidgets and Harry's abilities with defensive charms.

After about eight minutes, Jack said, “Only way I can tell if you're any good or not is to get you out there. But you seem to be fairly good at evading death.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, looking at Remus. “It's one of my main skills.”

“I'm certified by the Department of Magical Beings to have one apprentice. You can be it. If you're good enough you can apply for a license of your own after a year. How's that sound?”

“Good,” Harry said. He did his best to smile. “Yeah, it sounds good.”

“Forgot to ask how much I would pay you, didn't you? That's your first mistake,” Jack said. “It's set by the ministry I'm afraid, and you know how cheap they are.”

Harry assured him it would be fine, and was told to show up at six the next evening to begin the late shift. Jack whistled to the jarvey, and it stood up slowly, and followed him out of the house, muttering some rather ripe swear words as it did so.

“I'm sure you'll enjoy it,” Remus said, sitting down on one of the chairs. It was the second day of the full moon, and he was looking rather drawn. “Jack's a nice chap.”

“You've said.”

“It might help. You know. To do something that gets you away from other people,” Remus said.

Harry nodded, looking at the grindylows. Remus had arranged this interview with him, had brought him out for cake and biscuits like a kindly uncle, but they hadn't talked properly since the night he'd thought he was in Romania. Harry wondered if they could have a real conversation when they weren't in the dark.

“I know it being at night can be a bit odd, but I've never minded that,” Remus added.

“How often have you done this job?” Harry asked.

“Quite a lot, over the years. Jack's been kind when I haven't been able to get any other work,” Remus said. “Of course for a long time he couldn't pay me officially.”

“It's getting better, isn't it?” Harry said. ]

“Slowly,” Remus said, and he went to strand over by the open door. Birds were singing. Harry waited for him to say something more, but he didn't, and Harry found he couldn't press him.

*

It was probably the most awkward conversation Harry had ever had, or at least up there with the time he'd overheard Dudley asking Vernon about the origins of babies. And, given that he knew not to ask questions, he hadn't been directly involved in that one. He was in this.

“Look, mate,” Ron was saying, twisting his hands together. “It's just that the room we were sharing is sort of bigger than Hermione's.”

“Yes, it is,” Harry said. He knew the direction this conversation was taking, but he wasn't quite kind enough to make it easier on Ron.

“Well,” Ron said. “Hermione and I've been thinking. That we might try sharing a room all the time, you know.”

“Think she'll put up with you?”

“The thing is. There's not much space for two of us. In her room.”

“That is difficult,” Harry agreed.

“So can we swap, is what Ron is trying to say,” Hermione said, coming into the room. She had clearly been listening at the door.

“I know,” Harry said. For the first time, he felt perhaps they shouldn't live together, the three of them. Perhaps Ron and Hermione would prefer it if they didn't. Perhaps they were too old to share everything. An image of himself alone in a dusty flat, sleeping all day and working all night, popped into his head.

He looked over at Ron, who was looking hopeful and nervous and playing awkwardly with his sleeve. He thought, compared to moving out, how easy it would be to move his things upstairs, and how nice Hermione's room was, with its skylight, and its yellow floor. It had white walls and yellow painted floorboards, and Harry thought it was a bit like being in an egg.

“All right,” he said. “That's fine.”

Ron's grinned, and Hermione came over and gave him a quick hug. Ron thanked him.

They spent the rest of the day organising things, moving Harry's clothes and trunk upstairs and Hermione's piles of books downstairs, and changing sheets and removing clumps of dust. Hermione charmed the two beds together, and Harry thought they looked like they'd always meant to be like that.

It was a relief when he got an owl from Remus asking if he'd like to meet him in the afternoon. He stroked the tawny owl and sent him back with a quick yes, and met Remus in the Leaky Cauldron. It was bubbling with conversation when Harry walked in, but the tone seemed to change as he moved through it, and he was aware of eyes on him.

He felt Remus's hand on his shoulder. “Want to go somewhere else?”

He tilted his head back, looking up so he could meet Remus's eyes. “Yes please.”

They went back into muggle London, and walked though the bright, noisy street. It was September now, but the air was still very warm, and it felt heavy against the skin. They stopped at the first café that looked comfortable, and Harry got himself a coke and a slice of chocolate cake. Remus was drinking coffee again, and Harry wondered if his selection wasn't a bit childish.

They talked at first about work, and Harry shared some stories about the animals he'd encountered and the time they actually had to fend off real poachers.

“You sound enthusiastic,” Remus said.

Harry looked down at the remains of his slice of cake. “I do like it. More than I thought I would. I like how active it is. I'm even starting to like Isaac!”

“And the jarvey?” Remus said. “Jack rescued him from curious muggles, you know.”

“I bet it was more like Jack having to rescue the muggles from the jarvey,” Harry said. “Why doesn't he have a name, anyway?”

“Jack didn't mean to keep him,” Remus said. “He just won't leave.” Somehow, that made Harry think about Ron and Hermione and moving the beds.

“Ron and Hermione kicked me out of my room,” he said.

“What? Why?” Remus said sharply. “Do you have somewhere to stay?”

“No, it's not like that. I used to share with Ron, but now they want to share with each other, so I had so move upstairs.”

“Ah,” Remus said.

Harry waited for him to say something else, but he didn't, so he voiced another thought, “Perhaps I shouldn't live with them any more.”

“Do you think so?” Remus said.

“But I don't want to live on my own,” Harry said. Harry fiddled with his fork. “Why does everything get so complicated the older you get?”

Remus tilted his head back, and the sunlight coming through the low window to their left caught his profile, highlighting the line of his nose and colouring the streaks of grey in his hair. “I don't know,” Remus said. “I think it starts to even out as you get older. Even older. Though it's always been complicated for me. And I suppose it may always be complicated for you, too.”

“People will forget about me eventually,” Harry said, pushing his plate aside. “I'm really not very interesting.”

“I meant because you're like me. Because you're gay,” Remus said.

Harry didn't know what to say to that.

“Defeating the darkest wizard of our time is old hat by now. But being gay never goes away,” Remus said. Then, unexpectedly, he laughed. “I'm good at cheering people up, aren't I?”

Harry ended up laughing too.

*

He dreamt about Remus that night, and it was the sort of dream that made him glad he wasn't sharing a room with Ron any more, and it only took him a moment to come into his hand once he had woken, and then he lay there, sweating, his cock gradually softening against his palm, the images from the dream filling his head. _Remus's hands on his arse, Remus's teeth on his neck, Remus's tongue on his nipple..._

He smiled and rolled onto his back, looking up through his skylight. _Remus's tongue on his nipple, his hands on Remus's hair, what would it feel like, what colour would Remus's pubic hair be, would the scars on his hands extend up his arms?_

Slowly the blissful, sleepy fantasy slipped away, and Harry thought anxiously about the possibility of being attracted to Remus. No, it wasn't a possibility. He'd been attracted to Remus in the café the day before, and he was attracted to him now. Once he'd decided on this he felt much better. Of course he was attracted to Remus. Who wouldn't be?

They started meeting regularly, about once a week. Harry found the attraction didn't distract him from talking to Remus, or make him feel like he had to act. It simply remained there, in his head, strangely familiar, and rather nice. Generally after they saw each other he would bring himself off to fantasies based around the way Remus had said something, or touched his arm, or sipped his drink, and his good dreams centred around him.

Then they missed a week because it was the full moon, and then another, and they got out of the pattern of seeing one another. Harry missed him in an abstract sort of way, but he was also working long hours and looking over the spells he needed to know to get his licence and sleeping during the day was beginning to come to him more easily, so more time disappeared.

*

About three months after he got his job, he met Wilf again. He was in Diagon Alley, trying to find some ingredients for the useful salve for cuts and bruises, when he saw Wilf in the apothecary, holding a bag full of silvery mooncalf dung.

Harry swung the door open, and heard Wilf saying, “It's the best stock, you know. Worth two galleons an ounce. Can't sell it any cheaper. Imported at this time of year, of course. All the way from Tuscany, and you couldn't do better. I brought it over myself.”

The old witch behind the counter kept crocheting, though she was watching Wilf.

“I would buy from him if I were you,” Harry said in a loud voice. “He's a poacher, and a fraud.”

Wilf started, and then turned around. “Harry!” he said. “How nice.”

The witch looked at both of them, and then back to her crochet. Harry saw her select another ball of colourful wool from the pile on the table in front of her.

“Nice?” Harry said. His voice remained even and a bit threatening. He was quite proud of that. “I've been wanting to hex you for months.”

“Not in here, you're not,” the witch said, a strand of yellow wool between her teeth.

“Good idea,” Wilf said. “Why don't we go outside?”

“Fine,” Harry said, and led them into Diagon Alley. It was bright and cold and full of sunlight. Wilf shifted in the cold and stuck his hands into his coat pockets.

“Want me to buy you a drink, eh, Harry?” Wilf said. He was less attractive than Harry had remembered. His face seemed out of proportion, and the bag of silvery dung had a strong and distinctive scent.

“Mooncalf dung should smell sweet,” Harry said. “Is that mixed with Jarvey dung?”

“Now Harry,” Wilf said. “Getting too clever for you own good, I see. I'm sure you wouldn't fall for the same trick again.”

“I wouldn't,” Harry said. “Had fun with that one, did you? Hoping I'd get a fine?”

“You look so fierce!” Wilf said. “No wonder the Dark Lord trembled. It was just a laugh, Harry. When I saw you, I remembered about that portkey, and I wanted to have some fun with it, since I couldn't use it for business.”

“Fun?” Harry snapped.

“Yeah, fun, ever heard of it? It's wasn't personal, mate. I would have done it to anyone. You just happened to be there. I can buy you a drink to make up for it?”

“You may think I'm stupid to fall for that ridiculous trick of yours, but you're stupid if you think I'd ever go anywhere with you again,” Harry said. The words tumbled out over each other. He wondered if he should swear. Ron would swear.

“All right,” Wilf said, still maintaining his grin. “Your loss. I thought we were having fun.”

“No, we fucking weren't,” Harry said.

“Right then,” Wilf said. He eyed the apothecary, decided against it, and turned down towards Knockturn alley. Harry watched him and his rather nice arse go. He thought that he had said all the wrong things, and Wilf had got the better of him all over again.

He stood in the cold sunlight, wallowing briefly in the unfairness of it all. Why couldn't he have a nice boyfriend with a nice arse? Why was he always stuck with people who wanted to trick him and tried to pass jarvey dung off as mooncalf?

*

He hadn't seen Remus for weeks, but now here he was, feeding the jarvey and looking like his familiar self: shabby, but not unkempt, and kindly. Seeing him still made Harry's stomach stir, and he found it hard to take his eyes off him. There was something very compelling about Remus.

“Jack's taking the day off. He said you'd be fine on your own, but I thought I'd give you a hand if you want it,” Remus said.

“Yeah,” Harry said. “Well, if you're not busy. That would be great.”

They set out for the familiar patrol of the snidget sanctuary. It was colder, now, and the dark was setting in earlier and earlier. Harry was wearing thick wool robes over jeans and boots and a Weasley jumper. They talked about how Harry was getting on, and how Remus had finally found a new job in a published company, and sometimes they walked in silence under the clear sky.

Harry checked the ward and defensive spells in different parts of the grounds, but there was no sign that anyone had been tampering with them. People could still walk in undetected in certain places where the wards were thin, but no one had entered by magical means.

“Just feed Isaac then,” he said, and summoned the bucket of chicken necks and fish heads they kept at the office. Isaac was still not particularly fond of Harry, but he did tolerate his presence reasonably well, particularly if he was bringing him food.

He was turning his head to say something to Remus, who was behind him, the heavy bucket in his left hand, when the big, sweaty hand closed over his throat, and squeezed. Harry, unable to react for a second, tightened his grip on the bucket and yelped. It was dark, and he was being twisted close to a large, hot body, and he could only see Isaac, and the hand on his throat was very big and very tight and it was hard to remember what to do with the rest of his limbs. He heard Remus shout a spell and someone else shout something back, and saw sparks of light out of the corner of his eyes.

“Just want some feathers from this nice griffin of yours,” the man said, but he did let go of Harry, and Harry remembered to drop the bucket, and he twisted, and the hand tightened on his neck, and he gasped, but the thrust his hands backwards anyway, kicking his feet.

“Fuck,” the man said. “Why don't you get them for me?” and before he could stop himself, he was being flung towards Isaac, who was frightened and was beating his wings wildly and lashing out with his talons, and Harry, off-balance and too aware of the pain in his throat, brought his hands up to protect himself. Isaac slashed him across his palms with his talons, and Harry moaned, staggering to stand upright, and get away from Isaac.

He could see Remus standing a few metres away, his wand raised, and Harry wanted to shout to him, but the red sparks of a spell flew towards him, and he twisted, deflecting it, and shouted the stunning spell. He heard someone thunk to the ground. He sprang forward. He thought Remus had taken care of the other man, but he needed to check. He could hear Isaac's wings beating the air.

He skidded on the damp grass, and pitched forward, the side of his chin meeting the ground with a dull pain. He lay there, willing his legs to move, and found that they didn't. He felt the world receding somehow, the noises and the cold growing distant, though he found that he was shivering, his wand still tightly clutched in his right hand. He thought, somewhere, he could hear Voldemort's high, cold laugh, though that was impossible. He gripped at the tufts of grass in one hand, and they felt like other grass he'd held, and his heart pounded again, and somehow lying here with his stinging hands felt the same as lying on the ground near Cedric's stricken body.

He heard Remus shout, and struggled to his feet. The world was still moving strangely. He felt like he was standing under the wrong sky, and though he could not be seeing it, he somehow saw the horribly familiar flash of green light, the energy leaving a person's eyes as they died.

He felt Remus's hand on his shoulder. “There you are, Harry,” and he tried to make himself nod, though Remus felt very distant from him somehow. He remembered the poacher's hands on his throat, and Wormtail's hand on his arm.

“You're shaking. Are you hurt?”

Harry hands were bleeding from where Isaac had scratched them, but otherwise he was fine. Remus was lifting his hands, looking at them.

“You stay there. I'm going to alert an Auror. I'll look at your hands when we have more light.”

The two poachers were both immobile, lying on their backs in the long grass. He could hear Isaac shifting, stamping his feet, and then the familiar crunch of bone as he pulled out a chicken's neck from the bucket. He backed away towards the sounds as Remus sent an alert.

He heard, but didn't look, as Remus spoke to an Auror, and heard the pop of someone apparating. He heard voices, laughter, but he couldn't bring himself to go over. He stood near Isaac, listened to the griffin chewing and settling his wings and swishing his tail. He knew Voldemort was gone. He didn't know why he was shaking so much. For a moment he had felt trapped by the poacher, as he had once felt trapped before.

“I'm fine,” Harry said, as Remus came down the hill towards him.

“Are you sure?” Remus lifted his hands, looking at them. Harry was still trembling, and the more he willed his muscles to stop the more he seemed to shake. “You might be in shock.”

“No,” Harry said. “I'm fine. I think Isaac is fine, too. He's eating.”

“Good,” Remus said softly. “Poor Isaac. He's so gentle, really.”

Harry nodded. He shut his eyes for a moment, trying to shut out the memory of green light. He wanted Remus to touch him, and he wanted to be touched by no one. Somehow, in the dark, he felt terribly exposed.

*

Harry was still trembling when they got back to the office. Remus made him sweet tea, but he couldn't drink it properly. The cup kept clacking against his teeth, and it was hard to hold on to where he was. Remus kept looking at him, but he didn't ask questions. He gave Harry some of the salve to spread on his cuts, and Harry did his best.

“Is your flat on the floo?” Remus asked.

Harry thought. He knew, but the answer felt far away. “It is. For Hermione's work. We had it attached.”

“Good,” Remus said, and soon he was whisking Harry away to the fire, and the whirling speed of the floo.

They stood in the kitchen, Harry blinking soot out of his eyes. He felt a little better in the familiar, messy room. Hermione's books were spread across one end of the table, and a jar of jam and half a cake were sitting at the other. Crookshanks was on the mantelpiece, his tail dangling. He'd swatted at them like they were big, ungainly flies as they'd scrambled out of the fireplace. The kitchen was dark, lit be a sickle moon and distant street lamps, but they didn't put the light on. Harry went and stood by the cooker, his hands on the cool metal knobs. He could feel Remus's presence in the room, but he couldn't quite look at him.

“You're still shaking,” Remus said softly. Harry looked down at his hands, at the cuts laced across their palms. He didn't know what to say. It wasn't because of Isaac. It wasn't because of the wizard's hands on his throat, on his arms, on his skin. He didn't know why he was still shaking.

He though about how badly he wanted Remus to touch him, and how afraid he was of Remus touching him. He felt, somehow, like his skin might start to melt if Remus didn't touch him, define his edges with his hands, and he felt like having anyone touch him, especially Remus, Remus who he liked so much, would be too much to bear.

“Yes,” Harry said, standing there, in front of the cooker, in the faint glow. “Yes,” he said. He was good at being brave. He was so _tired_ of being brave. He turned around slowly, wrapping his arms around his chest, around his torso.

He met Remus's eyes. They were warm, and brown, and encouraging. “Remus...” Harry said.

Remus came over, and stood next to him, in front of the old formica counter top to the left of the cooker. It was peeling slightly, and looked grey in the light. Remus put his hand on Harry's shoulder, his eyes still on Harry's. Harry held the gaze, his arms trembling. He thought if he looked away, Remus might stop. He thought if he looked away, Remus might say something understanding, and leave. So he kept looking, even though his eyes burned, and Remus put his other hand on Harry's upper arm, and then he slid it between Harry's arm and his chest wall, and then he drew Harry to him so that their eyes lost contact, and Harry ducked his head so he could rest it on Remus's collarbones, and he felt himself still trembling. He lifted his arms haltingly, and wrapped them around Remus's back, and Remus was holding him loosely, so Harry could escape if he wanted to, but he didn't. He just stood there and trembled.

“Oh Harry. Sometimes things happened, and they're too much,” Remus said. He traced Harry's spine with his palm. Harry wondered what was too much. Whether it was the poachers on the familiar rise, or Remus in his kitchen, his arms around Remus's back.

Harry didn't say anything. He didn't think he was trembling so much any more. He wondered if Remus was going to push him away now that he started to calm down, but Remus didn't change his grip at all. “It's all right, Harry,” Remus was saying. “Whatever you need.”

What he _needed._ Harry didn't know. _Sometimes things happen, and they're too much_. It was too much, but he stood there, breathing in Remus's familiar scent, and then he pulled back a little, raising his head, and met Remus's eyes.

Then slowly, deliberately, he leant forward, and kissed him. It wasn't much of a kiss. Both their mouths were dry, and Harry was still couldn't stop himself from trembling, and Harry ducked his head away quickly.

“Harry,” Remus said, gently. “You've had a shock. You don't know what you're doing.”

And finally, Harry felt like himself again. He felt like talking again. He looked up at Remus, and shook his head, and kissed him again, this time lightly, and warmly, on his cheek. “I know what I'm doing,” he said. “Honestly. I want this. The more I think about it the more I realise how long I've wanted it.”

“You're loosing your head,” Remus said. “I wanted to give you a shoulder to lean on. Nothing more.”

“It's all right if you don't want anything more,” Harry said. As he said, it he realised he wasn't surprised.

“That's not what I'm saying,” Remus said. His arms were still around Harry, and the brief, evening light was passing, leaving the window and their kitchen in the half-dark. “Dear boy. That's not what I'm saying at all.”

Then he kissed Harry again, and it was much better: warm, and moist, and lingering. When he drew away Harry was surprised to find himself making a faint, grunting noise of protest.

“I won't feel right about this, not now,” Remus said, and he was letting go of Harry. “But if you still want to talk to me tomorrow, Harry... Visit me any time. I'll always want to hear from you.”

He cupped Harry's cheek in his hand, and then his shoulder, and then his hand, squeezing with a dry thumb. Then he disapparated before Harry could voice his thoughts, though all Harry really wanted to say was, “Don't go.”

*

He slept badly in his room at the top of the house. He remembered, once, shortly after Voldemort's death, sharing a bed with Ginny in Grimmauld Place. She had been lying on her side on one of the oldest beds crying when he found her, and he had sat next to her, not knowing how to offer any comfort. She had squeezed his hand, and said she was sorry, and he told her she didn't need to be sorry, and lay next to her in the bed, looking at her eyelashes sticky with tears, her face plump with sorrow.

He hadn't known how to hold anyone, not really, but at last he had figured out how to hold her, with one arm stretched out under her neck, and then other wrapped around her stomach, drawing her close to his chest. He had felt her trembling with tears, and then felt those tears ease, and felt her falling asleep in his arms in the darkening room. He had lain there, waiting for discomfort to overtake him, willing himself not to disturb her, and had fallen asleep himself. They had woken in the early morning, the room full of grey summer light, and he had felt her silky hair tickling his chin, and she had rolled over and stroked his face with slim hands. He had been sleeping so badly, but that morning he felt refreshed. He lay in bed, thinking about her body in his arms, and wondering if he could stand to hold someone like that again, or to be held.

He got up and went to the mirror by the door. “There's something wrong with me,” he said to it. He looked at his face as he said the words, the movement of his lips.

Hermione was in the kitchen alone when he got downstairs. “Good morning!” she said cheerfully. “I thought I'd be on my own. Ron has a meeting in Guernsey this morning so he left early.”

Harry nodded, opening the cupboard to see if anything he wanted to eat would appear.

“You look terrible!” Hermione said. “Haven't you slept?”

“Not very well,” Harry said.

“Are they working you too hard? It is a funny job, you know.”

“Funny?” Harry said.

“Just funny hours,” Hermione said. “You know.”

“Mm,” Harry said. He sat down at the table opposite her with half a packet of custard creams. “We got attacked by some poachers last night. Well. We surprised them. We do it all the time. They didn't come quietly, though.”

“Are you all right?” Hermione asked, putting her spoon down.

“Yes. I think so. Just slept funny. Remus brought me home.”

“Really? I didn't see him. I suppose I was asleep. How is he? It's been ages.”

“He's all right,” Harry said. He stared at the custard creams. He hadn't taken one out of the packet yet. He suspected them of being very stale. “Hermione,” he said. “I think I might want to start... Sort of... seeing him.”

“What?” Hermione said. Then she looked at him thoughtfully and said, “ _Oh._ ”

“I know,” Harry said. “Old enough to be my father. Shouldn't be interested.”

“That wasn't what I was going to say,” Hemione said. She stood up, and brought her bowl over to the sink. She was neatly dressed in her work robes, and her hair was tied back so severely it seemed like it must hurt. She turned around, facing him, leaning, Harry realised, in exactly the same place as Remus had been the night before. “Is he interested in you?” she said.

“He didn't say he wasn't,” Harry said honestly.

“Good,” Hermione said. “If he didn't say he wasn't, that means he is. If you think someone likes you they almost always do.”

“Really?” Harry said, staring at her. “Are you sure?”

Hermione laughed. “Yes, I'm sure. Saves a lot of time, doesn't it, knowing that?”

*

After giving up on the custard creams, Harry thought about making himself some toast or eating one of Ron's bananas, but he found he was too jittery. He really only wanted to see Remus. He paced around the flat for a while, aware that it was still early, but in the end he decided to leave. Remus was currently living in a small house in Tooting, and Harry apparated to a near-by street. He'd never been there before, and it took him a few anxious minutes before he was able to locate Remus's house number.

Thought it was on a muggle street, Harry could feel that there was something magical about the house. He rang the doorbell, which gave a tired buzz, and waited. Remus looked rather tired and pale when he answered, but he smiled when he saw Harry, and welcomed him in. He was wearing the same clothes as the previous night, and the house smelt strongly of frying and fireplaces. The sitting room was small and dusty, but very comfortable. A large quantity of books lined the walls, and were also stacked in piles on the floor. Remus's large tawny owl was sitting on a perch regarding them with one eye. The other was shut, and he looked like he was dozing. There were a number of magical instruments lining the mantelpiece, though they were all filmed in dust.

Harry stood there, looking around, while Remus sat down on the sofa. Harry thought about sitting next to him and sinking into the cushions, but something about it made him feel nervous. “I've been wanting to see you,” he said.

“And here you are,” Remus said. “Why don't you sit down?”

Harry did, at the opposite end of the sofa from Remus. He fiddled with his hands.

“Look, Harry,” Remus said. “I'm sure last night took you by surprise. Often having been very frightened or full of adrenaline makes us want to have sex. You can forget about it.”

“Oh,” Harry said. He looked at his hands. The nails were dirty, the knuckles scuffed. They hadn't changed since he was in school. He thought an adult should have tidier hands. It was warm in the living room, and his cheeks felt hot. “I'd like to do more, though. I wanted to.”

Remus stood up. His face changed slightly, though Harry couldn't read the expression. “You're very young,” he said. “And I don't know if I would feel comfortable with it.”

“But...” Harry bit his lip, listening to the fire crackling, the tawny owl shifting on his perch. “But I want to,” he said at last, and thought it sounded hollow, and petulant.

“Do you know what you want?”

“Yes,” Harry said. “It wasn't just last night. It's taken me time. To realise. But I do realise.”

He hated feeling so exposed, and yet he felt like he had to expose himself further, to give more of himself, before Remus would give anything at all. “I like you,” he said at last. “You're in all my dreams. All the good ones.” It was too hot in the room, and his jumper was uncomfortable. He tugged at it, and then pulled it off over his head and sat there in just his t-shirt.

Remus stood there, looking at him, his face twisted. “Stand up,” Remus said.

Harry did as he was told. He felt, first, the rough wool of Remus's jumper on his forearms, and then the scratchy stubble of Remus's cheek against his own, and then slowly, deliberately, the sensation of Remus lips against his neck, and Remus's hand's warm on his back, his upper arms, stroking the crown of his head.

“Oh,” Harry said softly. He remembered Hermione saying that earlier. “ _Oh_.”

“You are fucking gorgeous,” Remus said, and Harry didn't think he'd ever heard him swear before, and he was surprised, and he breathed in Remus's scent, watching Remus's mouth. He was biting his lips, looking uncomfortable, like he was fighting with himself. Then Remus kissed him again, his mouth hesitant, but warm, and firm, and Harry whimpered against him, surprised and pleased.

Their kisses fell into an easy rhythm, Harry's lips were wet and the sides of his mouth damp too, and Remus's stubble scratched against the soft skin there. He was hard, though he didn't quite remember getting hard, and he pressed himself against Remus's body, feeling warm and contained by Remus's arms, by the hands on his shoulders, by the smell of Remus clothes. He thought he could feel Remus's own arousal against his belly, but he wasn't sure. For a second he was too nervous, and then he wriggled his hips, grinding against Remus's thigh, his crotch. Remus made a faint sound, and pushed Harry back slightly, though he left his hands, warm, on Harry's shoulders.

“Are you sure you want to this?” Remus said.

“Yes,” Harry said back, thrusting forward again, nipping at the line of Remus's neck, licking the skin there. It was reddish, like Remus was slightly sunburnt, though surely it was too late in the year for that. He touched the lobe of Remus's ear, his fingers trembling, and touched Remus's cheek. Remus was watching him, his expression hard to read. “Yes,” Harry said again.

“If you want to take this further, we'll have to go to my bedroom. I'm too old to do things like this on the sofa,” Remus said.

Remus led him up a narrow, carpeted staircase. It was colder away from the fireplace, and Harry wrapped his arms around himself. Occasionally he still felt a burst of that nervous energy from the previous night, and his heart raced. The bedroom was small, and Harry stood by the door as Remus tugged at the duvet and closed the curtains. He felt a little awkward, suddenly, in this new space, and cold.

Remus sat down at the edge of the bed. “Come here,” he said, and Harry sat next to him. Remus stroked his forearms, which were cold, with warmer hands, and kissed him again. Harry couldn't quite keep track of how they went from not kissing to kissing, couldn't quite work out how Remus's hands ended up in his hair, or his tongue in Remus's mouth. He was so pleased to find them kissing that everything else seemed to be a blank.

“You're cold; do you want to get under the covers?” Remus said.

Harry nodded. He realised he was still wearing his shoes, and he took them off. He looked at Remus, who was just wearing socks. “Should I take my trousers off?” he said.

“Yes,” Remus said. Then, “Yes, if you like.”

Harry took them off, letting them crumple into a ball by the bed. He was aware he was aroused, and aware it was obvious now that he was just wearing underwear. He glanced awkwardly at Remus, and Remus took his own trousers off, dropping them on the floor too. “Come here,” Remus said, and pulled Harry against him. Harry could feel Remus's arousal, and felt warm again, against his body. Remus guided them down onto the bed. Harry bucked eagerly against Remus, feeling his cock bumping against Remus's.

Remus kissed him beside his eye, and nipped at the skin on his jawline, and ran his tongue along the line of Harry's throat. It made Harry gasp. Harry divested himself of his t-shirt, and Remus ran his hands over Harry's chest, palms hot on his skin, and licked the smooth skin there. His hands explored Harry's hips, and Harry willed him to move them further, to touch his cock. Harry felt like he should be touching Remus too, but he was too full of what Remus was doing to him, he didn't think he could concentrate on anything else.

“Can I take these off?” Remus said, and Harry nodded, raising his hips so Remus could easily slide the boxers down. Remus's hands gently traced Harry's hips and the skin next to his cock, and Harry squirmed, so sensitive to the touch that he was almost ticklish.

He slid back onto Remus's pillows, his hips rocking as Remus ran his fingers down his engorged cock, and then he felt Remus's warm breath on it, and Remus's nose nudging his pubic hair. His breath quickened, and his skin was hot. Remus's tongue ran along the length of his cock, and Harry found himself making a strange, breathy noise.

“Have you done this before?” Remus said.

“No, never,” Harry replied.

“I think you'll like it. All right?”

Harry nodded, and felt Remus's hot tongue on his cock, felt the pressure of his mouth sucking on the skin, on the tip of his cock, on the hot, sensitive places. He tried to keep himself still and gripped onto the bed sheets. He found he was making soft, keening sounds he had never made before, and he wanted to stop himself but he couldn't.

Remus kept licking, and Harry felt himself burn with arousal. The tongue on his cock felt so good, and somehow it wasn't _enough_ at the same time, but he didn't want Remus to stop, and then suddenly Remus was sucking the head into his mouth, and sliding the cock against his cheek, and his mouth was so hot, and the pressure on his cock felt just right. Harry found he wanted to thrust into it, but he didn't, and held himself still, letting Remus's mouth work around his cock, one of Remus's hands squeezing the base.

Harry felt hot, the world receding from him, his mind only able to focus on Remus's mouth, Remus's hands, the wonderful wet pressure on his cock.

“ _Oh_ ,” he heard himself saying. “I think I'm going to...”

Remus pulled his mouth away suddenly, his hands still working rapidly over Harry's cock, and Harry came all at once, semen hot on his stomach. Harry opened his eyes, not remembering when he had closed them, and let go of the bed covers, which he had been gripping so tightly his hands hurt. He saw Remus run his finger through the pool of semen, and suck the sticky liquid from its tip. Harry thought he'd be wanking to that image, of Remus sucking Harry's semen off his finger, for a long time.

“That was...” Harry swallowed. “That was really good.”

“I'm glad it meets with your approval,” Remus said. He gave Harry a tissue from the bedside table, and Harry wiped the rest of the come off himself. He lay down next to Harry on the bed. Harry leaned over and kissed his cheek, and then his mouth.

“Can I do that to you?” Harry said.

“Do you want to?” Remus said. He looked, suddenly, rather worried. “You don't have to, you know. We can just stop now.”

“I'd really like to,” Harry said.

Remus was still wearing a shirt and boxers. He removed them both, his hand faltering slightly on the buttons of the shirt. Harry looked at him, aware that this was the first time he had seen a male body in a sexual context, and aware, too, of the differences between his own body and Remus's. Remus's skin was lined by scars, mainly white and old, though there were some newer, fresher marks. They varied in length and diameter, some wide and long, while others were small and unremarkable. The quantity was startling. Harry was aware, too, that Remus carried some excess weight around his stomach, and the skin there and at his neck was loose.

Remus saw him looking. “I'm very old.”

“No you're not,” Harry said. “You're much younger than, say, McGonagle.”

“Oh yes, thanks, she's exactly who I want to think about when I'm having sex,” Remus said.

Harry laughed. He put his hand, slightly nervous, on Remus's hip, then over his cock. “I think you look great, Remus,” he said, and meant it. “Really handsome.”

“Thank you, Harry,” Remus said. He laughed awkwardly.

Harry wrapped his hand around Remus cock and squeezed it gently. The slave had soothed his hands considerably, but the cuts still stung slightly when he stretched them. He ignored it. He could see a bead of pre-come forming on the tip, and he wanted to lick it off and he also felt nervous about touching it. He glanced up at Remus.

Remus was lying back against the pillows. He met Harry's eyes. “You don't have to, you know,” he said.

“But I want to!” Harry snapped. Feeling bold, he reached out his tongue and gently licked the tip of Remus's cock. It tasted muskier and stronger than he had been expecting, but he didn't find it unpleasant. He licked it again, more confidently this time, and watched it bob upwards slightly. He kept licking it, exploring the hot skin there. A place near the tip of his cock, which had always felt good to touch when he was wanking also made Remus make faint sounds of pleasure and his cock seemed to twitch eagerly when Harry licked it. The head was hot against his tongue, and drops of the musky pre-come collected there.

He wanted to suck it into his mouth as Remus had, but he was worried it was too big, or he might damage it with his teeth. On the other hand, he was curious to know what it would feel like. He'd often liked putting things in his mouth, pens and sugar quills and, sometimes, at night, the tip of his thumb, and he wondered what Remus's cock would feel like. Gripping it with one hand, he opened his mouth as much as he could and guided the cock in. It felt very big in his mouth, but not quite as painfully so as he had worried it might, and he sucked it as much as he could, squeezing the base with his other hand. He was concentrating too hard to become aroused himself, but he was aware of how _hot_ he was finding this, how much he liked to hear the noises Remus was making.

“Harry,” Remus said.

“What?” Harry said, sliding the cock out of his mouth.

“Nothing,” Remus said. “Just, it feels nice.”

Harry kept going, moving his tongue and his mouth around the head of Remus's cock, and trying to suck as much as he could, while squeezing Remus's shaft with his hands. Just as he was beginning to ache, Remus grabbed his hair, fingers tangling in it, and said, “Stop.”

Harry jerked his head back, and watched Remus come, squeezing Remus's cock in his hands as Remus spurted over his stomach. Harry flexed his jaw, feeling unfamiliar muscles sting.

“You're good at that,” Remus said, getting himself a tissue. “You looked amazing.”

Harry wasn't sure what to say. He lay back next to Remus. The sun was bright and cold outside, and he thought it was probably still morning. His stomach gave a sudden, angry gurgle, and Harry found himself flushing. “Sorry,” he said. “I didn't eat breakfast this morning.”

“Oh,” Remus said. “We'll have to feed you then.”

“Yes,” Harry said. He felt Remus putting an arm around his shoulders, tucking a warm chin into hollow beside his neck. “Yes,” he said. “Soon.”

They lay in Remus's bed, in the sunlight. After a while Harry felt too hot in Remus's embrace, and freed himself, and lay, content, in the warm sheets. Remus seemed half asleep, and then he opened his eyes. He looked anxious.

“Are you all right? Are you sure you want this? We don't have to do this again, you know.”

“Remus,” Harry said. There were a lot of things he thought he could say. Then he gripped Remus's hand, and squeezed it. “Remus. Shut up.”

Remus looked so surprised that Harry laughed, and then Remus laughed too, and they lay there in the warm bed, naked, holding hands, laughing.

*

Later, Harry went out to the little shop at the end of Remus's street, because Remus's kitchen was bare of most essentials, and he was hungry. It was mid-afternoon, and work the previous evening seemed far away, though he knew he would have to set off again soon, and explain it all to Jack. The muggle houses looked neat, strange in their similarity, and the shop was bright and gleaming with electric light, and Harry wandered back and forth between the fridges and the stacks of chocolate and crisps.

He felt strangely distant from it all, like he wasn't quite present here. It took him a long time to select the things he wanted—a frozen pizza, milk, a packet of biscuits—and once he had the items they felt cold and strange in his hands, like he hadn't chosen them. But when he went back outside, the sky had lost some of its leaden quality, and a shaft of sunlight lit one end of the street in an autumnal glow. There were dead leaves on the ground, and Harry walked through them, listening to them crunch.

He was here, on the muggle street, carrying a packet of biscuits. He was here, on the hilltop, holding his wand, feeling the wards beneath its tip, as fine and strong as wire. He was here, in Remus's bed, throwing off the covers because Remus was making him too hot.


End file.
